


choking on gold

by Graynee



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Character Study, Codependency, Drugs, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, References to Drugs, Unhealthy Relationships, nothing very explicit, this is pariging so you already know it’s going to be messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25542481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graynee/pseuds/Graynee
Summary: On Wednesday, Pariston gets up early and makes honey and peanut butter pancakes. He sits on Ging’s lap and he eats from his plate. Ging rests his hand on Paris’s shoulder and smells his green apple shampoo and tries not to think about the implications of all of this.
Relationships: Ging Freecs/Pariston Hill
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	choking on gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crownsandbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/gifts).
  * Inspired by [clean out of air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16710169) by [crownsandbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/pseuds/crownsandbirds). 



> Pariston and Ging have one of the most interesting dynamic in Hunter x Hunter, and I really wanted to write about them, so here you go. This was mainly inspired by crownsandbirds, who is brilliant. Read everything he has made.

Pariston hates the color blue, because blue means the ocean, and blue means his veins standing against his pearly near translucent skin.

He is fragile. More fragile than anyone Ging has ever met, and something in him calls to protect him, risk everything for him. He wants to cut his hand on his cheekbones and watch the bright, overwhelming redness of blood fall down him face.

When he cries, he kisses him tears away and wonders if he could ever love him.

He doesn’t love him, he reminds himself. He’s in love with the idea of possessing him, at best. The idea of a ring on his finger and a child with fluffy black hair and Pariston’s brown eyes.

He doesn’t love anything. Not his thousand presses pinstripe suits or his silky lavender pajamas.

But he loves fairytales. Not the nice ones, but the ones where women chop their feet off to fit into shoes and little girls get eaten by giants.

He reads and reads and reads until he can hardly keep his eyes open. It’s as if he wants to suck up all the words and lick the ink off off his fingers.

He is hungry. Hungry for love, for words, for anything he can get his hands.

Hungry for everything except food, it seems.

He scares Ging sometimes, when he refuses to eat. When his face grows thin and his pajamas get bigger. When he immediately vomits when he eats, as if he can’t stand so much as the taste of food on his tongue.

This is unhealthy. This whole thing is unhealthy and they both need help. He needs help. But how can he resists when he pulls him close and looks at him with those cow eyes?

He could never stay away from pretty things, and Pariston is nothing if not pretty.

Sometimes he spends days in bed, lounging around in his lavender pajamas, nowhere to go.

Other times he’s up all night, a joint in one hand and a pen in the other, scribbling down words that will sound like utter garbage in the morning, but read like Shakespeare in the night.

He’s addicted to him. To the soft curve of his hips and his black hole eyes. It’s enough to distract Ging from his prominent ribs, yearning to escape.

Lately, it’s gotten better. Ging can’t see his ribs anymore and sometimes he catches him eating tomato egg drop soup (Pariston only eats soup these days. He doesn’t know why and he doesn’t want to know why.)

At night, they huddle close and Paris kisses him, soft and silent, and he relents. Then they sleep. Two broken people playing house in matching silk pajamas.

Ging needs to leave. And soon. He hates this domesticity. It’s making him weak. Soft. Ging was made for desert winds and scorching suns, not breakfast in bed and lazy days. He is a man of movement. Action.

Pariston, however, is not. He is perfectly content to spend his days snorting coke and doing nothing. He doesn’t get as high as he used to anymore, but things are hardly perfect. He’s still using.

Ging asked him once, what he mostly used.

Pariston laughed in that same obnoxiously fake, curated way.

“Anything,” he said, and Ging was taken aback by his intensity. He’d never heard him be that passionate about anything (except maybe Ging himself.)

He’s tried to put Paris in rehab program after rehab program, but every single one has spit him out, still the same cokeheroinanything addict he was when he came in.

Ging figures it’ll come to an end eventually, whether it’ll end with Pariston lying on the floor, white smudged above his lip, or Pariston quitting.

Sometimes Ging wonders why he’s still here. Sitting in Pariston’sstupid, numbingly white penthouse and waking up at noon and giving him loving openmouthed kisses.

On Wednesday, Pariston gets up early and makes honey and peanut butter pancakes. He sits on Ging’s lap and he eats from his plate. Ging rests his hand on Paris’s shoulder and smells his green apple shampoo and tries not to think about the implications of all of this.

Sometimes Ging catches himself thinking. Thinking about Kite. Or Pariston. Or, of course, his son.

He loves and loathes the idea of it. Of having a son. Of being a father. But on the end, he knows it’s not worth it. He could never be a father. Someone worth looking up to. A hero. And now he’s slipped up and Kite won’t let go.

He’s like a particularly clingy dog, with his mop of thick white hair and soulful eyes. Ging managed to shake him off for a few months under the pretense of looking into some ruins in Azia.

Ging almost feels bad for lying to him. Almost.

After breakfast Ging takes Pariston against the wall, slow and steady, almost loving. Pariston draws the heat of blood from his skin and almost screams.

Their holding it together. It’s precarious. It’s ready to topple over at the slightest winds, but it’s still theirs.

At night, they go to parties thrown by people who’s named Ging doesn’t know and snort cokeheroinanything of the tables and the bannisters and people’s sweaty chests and arms.

“Hey,” Slurs Pariston, slowly rocking on Ging’s crotch, right on the couch with 10 different people sprawled on the floor because who cares? “d’you think Miranda’s got more of that cactus juice she gave me?”

“Who cares?” Pants Ging, his vision sparking white and black. “You’ve already got your fix.”

“Well, I want more,” Pariston whines, his perfectly manicured nails digging into Ging’s skin. “Give me more.”

Ging looks over and sees some pink pills. He picks one up, puts it in his mouth, and slips it into Pariston’s.

For a moment, Pariston watched him, and giggles.

“What?”

“You look high,” Pariston says.

“Everybody’s high.”

“Yeah,” says Pariston dreamily.

As Pariston finishes on his lap, Ging tilts his head back and for the first time in a long time, he lets himself think.

About Kite. About Gon. About Mito. About all the things he’s destroyed and all the decisions that have led him here, with this wicked golden boy on his lap and the taste of liquor on his lips.

Someway, somehow, this will end badly.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know if I want to make this a series yet


End file.
